


Lull

by erde



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon Divergence - Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Dancing, Getting Together, M/M, Mild Smut, Pining, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-15 02:12:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9214430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erde/pseuds/erde
Summary: Bucky makes new memories. Tony is in all of them.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MassiveSpaceWren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MassiveSpaceWren/gifts).



> Mainly written for the prompt _Dancing, Tony leading,_ though it includes a bit of _In the end fight of CACW, Tony manages to knock Steve out and immobilize Bucky (sitting on him?) and is ready to kill him. Bucky has given up by then, not defending himself anymore, so Tony pauses, not ready to kill Bucky in cold blood, and just breaks down, crying and sobbing, but lowers his weapons. Bucky tries to check on Steve after a while, and is surprised to have Tony help him get Steve to the quinjet and to safety. Bonus: feels, and maybe a few short words of apology or hints that not everything is lost?_
> 
> I hope you like the fic, Wren! I wish I had been able to incorporate more of your prompts because they were all great.

 

Looking back fondly on the good ol' days is difficult when the past is a patchwork of roughly cut squares, some missing, some frayed at the edges, almost none left untouched by the knowledge of what would come later, what he would become against his will. Still, he'd like to think he made do. When everything of yours gets stolen, you get by with scraps.

_What you do is to make new memories,_ Tony once told him without looking up from his soldering work on a layer of circuitry laid bare. _And while you're at it, you make them good and worth your while._ A hint of smoke had dissolved into wisps and then into nothing, and if Bucky hadn't known about all the things Tony had gone through, he would have thought that the answer was too simple, too good to be true.

Sometimes he remembers squatting in that small apartment in Bucharest and how the windows let in too much light, even with the newspaper cut-outs plastered against the glass. They were the first thing he saw when he woke up, curled up on the thin mattress he had set on the floor since late spring. He remembers the headlines and the opinion pieces and the ads, several days old by then and made familiar with time. He used to remember them better than he remembered his own past.

There's light here too. The windowpanes are clear, letting him see New York in all its glory. The city at night seems brighter, full of life, inviting. Once upon a time he had loved to go dancing, to take a lovely girl by the waist and see her smile as they swayed to the music.

It's been so long since that.

He makes the mistake of thinking out loud, and now Tony is standing there, arms spread as if saying _Come get me,_ and since Bucky has probably given him a look that seems sheepish rather than uninterested, Tony says, "Well?"

Bucky lets out a laugh, ignoring how his cheeks feel warm. "You can't be serious."

"And you can't be worse than Rogers, and even he became rather decent at it with time. Come on, Barnes. FRIDAY, some music's needed here."

It's probably a bad idea, but Bucky still takes a step forward, hands tucked in his pockets. "So, you're what, the Avengers' resident dance teacher?"

"I'm the resident everything. I'm a jack of all trades, master of a fairly large list of things. You would have to take your pick," Tony says with a click of his tongue, cocky to a fault, and Bucky should find it irksome instead of charming; he should have found Tony Stark haughty and blunt and caustic, but he didn't need kindness when he came back, he needed _normal,_ someone who didn't look at him with either pity or fear.

_Defiant,_ that's how he remembers Tony upon his return.

Before that, he remembers him saying that he wasn't _currently after you, Soldier,_ but that's not all of it. What Bucky remembers the most from Siberia is how _Stark_ had checked on Steve after firing a blast that knocked him unconscious and made Bucky's blood go cold, and then, after making sure that Steve was fine, how he had dragged himself to where Bucky lay motionless, sitting astride him and pointing his gauntlet at him with effort.

Bucky steeled himself and thought, _Sorry, Steve,_ but for all that he had clung to life no matter how miserable the prospect, he had no strength left. Everything had finally caught up with him, and even if it hadn't been Bucky who did all of it, he still had blood on his hands. It was fitting that the son of two of his victims should put an end to it, that Stark should be the one to avenge them and all the others whose faces and names Bucky didn't even remember. Who knew how many they were.

At last, he had looked at him. Stark's face was bloody, crimson red spread across his temple, and his cheekbone, and the corner of his lips, all the while the rest of him seemed drained of color. Bucky recognized the eyes, the despair, the powerlessness to remake the past. To have your life destroyed turned you gray, ashen, it trapped you in your own personal hell.

_This is it,_ he thought. The last thing he would see would be the circle of light nestled in Stark's palm, light all around instead of shadows encroaching him. He breathed out, closed his eyes, and mouthed, _I'm ready._

Nothing came.

It was soft, but Bucky still heard him. How his breathing hitched, small little gasps that reached his ears as if they were loud, deafening. Bucky opened his eyes and saw him, shoulders shaking even under the armor, arms limp at his sides. He couldn't see his whole face, but he saw the droplets sliding down his skin, unable to wash off all the blood, and then how they fell and disappeared into the black of Bucky's uniform.

To see him break down made Bucky's stomach clench. It ached like something that had gone missing so long ago, he barely remembered it. Winter of '44. Winter of '91. There were so many ways to steal someone else's youth. 

Bucky reached out in spite of himself; he remembers this clearly. He had traced the dent across the flickering light in the center of the armor. Deliberately gentle, even if Stark wouldn't be able to feel it.

_Fuck off,_ Stark had said.

He still helped Bucky to get Steve to safety, difficult as it had been with Bucky lacking an arm and Stark beaten bloody. They left together just as they had been when they entered the chamber, back when it seemed like their differences had been set aside for the greater good. 

When Stark didn't climb into the quinjet with them, Bucky turned to him and whispered, _What about you?_

_What about you?_ Bucky yelled after him, even as the controls lit up and the quinjet rose above the ground. But Stark only stayed put and went back inside.

Later, they learned that he had made it back to New York. Bucky didn't know how, but it wasn't the first time that the man surprised him. It sure as hell wouldn't be the last time either. Steve wrote Stark a letter and sent him a means to contact him. Bucky decided to go under, feeling as ready to put an end to it as he had felt back then. It would be like dying; it always was. Once the last traces of consciousness left him, it would be as if he had stopped existing.

Yet he came back, and sooner than expected.

Bucky couldn't make out what people were saying around him. All he knew is that he had felt a light squeeze on his arm, that he had thought _Steve_ before he even saw his face, and that the one he actually had recognized first was Stark, standing from a distance at the foot of the bed. _You thought you could sleep that off, Barnes? Think again._

Defiant.

And now here he is. Not Stark, just _Tony._ Asking him to dance.

Tony places his hand on the small of Bucky's back, ready to lead, and Bucky should resist it, in principle. He should fight all attempts to be controlled even in small ways, but it isn't control if he yields to it willingly, which he does. 

He does and it feels unreal. Governments have risen and fallen while he sleepwalked and did HYDRA's bidding, and though it doesn't feel like he deserves it, he dances with Tony. It begins as muscle memory, sparks of recognition rather than clear-cut memories, dancing halls, plain and simple merriment, the idea that he had all his whole life ahead of him. 

It's easy to follow him. His fingers—the ones made out of a special alloy, all of it a product of Tony's design—curl gently around Tony's shoulder and linger there as if his touch were welcome, a little something that Bucky can offer without risking rejection.

They were supposed to be mingling in the party downstairs, but this is better. The tie of Tony's tux is undone, showing a glimpse of skin as they sway, and the closeness is enjoyable. There's something fluttering in his stomach that Bucky hasn't felt in decades, a pinch of nervousness that makes him feel alive, lighter.

"Not bad, is it?" Tony asks when he hears him chuckle.

"It ain't half bad, no," Bucky says with a smile. Their hands are clasped. He can feel the warmth of Tony's hand in his own.

There had been one time, one single time, after they were done testing the triggers. He hadn't imagined that Tony would want to be involved directly, but he had. As Bucky would soon learn, he was stubborn, determined, outright _unstoppable_ once an idea got into him, and in this case, the idea had been to free Bucky from years and years of HYDRA's programming.

Bucky was still bound, gasping, sweat clinging to his skin, and Tony had reached out and pushed a lock of hair behind his ear. Feeling parched, Bucky had turned towards the touch at once, not thinking. He had brushed his mouth against Tony's skin. For a moment, neither moved. But soon enough he was kissing his fingers, the lines of his palm, nibbling old cuts and scratches. Like eating out of his hand.

Tony, his eyes half-lidded, had only held his breath. Get two lonely people together and see what happens.

_I can't be everything to you, Barnes,_ Tony had said, pulling back. And he truly couldn't, Bucky knew. He couldn't be his almost executioner and his benefactor. Bucky couldn't look to him for salvation and atonement. He couldn't be his lover. He still was the reason why Tony had become an orphan.

From then on, Tony only observed him from a distance during each session. What happened that day never came up again. Small blessings, maybe. It was gone as if it had been deleted from their memories. A clean slate.

But now, years down the road, they dance.

 

 

Bucky pulls a cigarette from his pocket and says, "Do you mind?"

"No," Tony says, shaking his head. "Kind of a bad habit, but hey, who am I to judge."

He smirks. "Yeah, not somethin' I usually go for, just felt like it. It's cold."

They're returning from a rock concert of all things. There's a faint buzz in his ears, but the rush he felt as he listened to the music is still there, as well as the warmth of Tony's body as he leaned in and yelled something Bucky didn't even quite catch in its entirety, but that made him laugh all the same.

"It would've been a shame if you hadn't liked it."

Bucky smiles. "How come?"

"You dress in black and have an honest to goodness metal arm. Really, Barnes, you're a walking trope. It would've been a damn shame."

"Well, I like to try new things. It was fun, Tony, thank you," he says, and it's the truth. If Steve had been there, he might've been horrified at all that noise, Bucky thinks with a smile, but he likes things loud these days. Much better than the silence.

"Give me a drag," Tony says.

"Yeah, I don't think that's a—"

" _Come on._ "

He shrugs and obliges, and it doesn't take long until Tony starts coughing and then laughing. They stop walking. He doesn't give in to the impulse to pat Tony's back, but he stands close and looks at him to make sure he's all right. "Okay, that wasn't— This wasn't my brightest moment. Lungs aren't what they used to be," Tony says, rapping his knuckles against his chest.

Bucky throws away what's left of the cigarette. He doesn't even need to stub it out with the toe of his boot, since the snow takes care of that.

"You didn't need to do that, though," Tony says, pointing at the ground.

"It's fine. It's— You know, I don't like snow too much," he says, out of nowhere. "I can deal with it just fine. I'm just not a big fan."

"Well, it kind of sucks. Maybe if you're indoors, but outside? You can slip on it, it can get all over your clothes, and when it gets all dirty, it's _definitely_ not a sight to behold. Past all that winter wonderland thing, it's not that great. One of the good things about living in Malibu," Tony says, and Bucky pictures that, all that sunlight and Tony.

The wind gets chilly, a little more so. He's gotten a haircut the day before, but he still gets hair all over his eyes, somehow, and when he less expects it, Tony reaches out and places a lock of hair behind his ear, deliberate. His fingers linger on his face, a thumb brushing his cheekbone.

Bucky wraps a hand around his.

 

 

His fingers bunch the sheets every time Tony slides inside him, slow strokes that increase in tempo, hands firm around his waist. Tony traces the line of his spine and chuckles when it makes Bucky gasp, goosebumps all over his skin. A feather's touch.

He loses himself in it. His body has been used as a weapon for so long that he's forgotten how this feels, to follow pleasure where pleasure takes him, to welcome the sudden loss of control instead of shying away from it. Once he gives in, it's blinding, overwhelming, and it feels pretty fucking good to boot.

Tony presses a kiss on his right shoulder afterwards, then brushes Bucky's hair away from his eyes as if it were a habit of his now. "Do you even like this? Getting your hair touched. The rest I won't even ask, since you _did_ sound like you were enjoying yourself."

"Yeah," he says in a drawl. "Do you?"

Tony hums in answer and Bucky's fingers thread through Tony's hair, more salt than pepper now. He leans into it, closing his eyes. It's quiet and Bucky doesn't mind it. They've gotten better with silences, which means that it's nothing but comfortable when the calm stretches into the night and falls over everything, almost stopping time.

He stirs when it's still dark. Tony is sitting on the border of the bed, pulling a shirt over his head. "I just got an idea. Gotta run."

Bucky chuckles. "What?"

"Yes, to the lab. Are you coming or not, James? You said you liked to see me work and you do have a keen eye for detail, which is nice."

"James?" he repeats, biting his lip slightly. He's aiming for casual, but damn, there are butterflies in his stomach all over again.

"I'm not going to call you _Bucky_ in the middle of— Unless you want this to be a one-time thing, which, hey, no hard feelings on my side," Tony says, nonchalant, even if it doesn't sound as uncomplicated as he wants to make it look. Case in point, his chest rises and doesn't fall, almost as if he were holding in the air, waiting for a reply.

It can never be simple between them.

"No, I," Bucky says, holding his hand. "I want this. And if you want it too, then that's— There's few things I've wanted this _badly_ since I came back, Tony." It comes out corny as hell, which makes Bucky laugh awkwardly. "Okay, that sounded a little— You're gonna have to take my word for it, but believe me when I say I used to be much, much smoother than this. I was _good._ "

It still feels like it's worth saying. Bucky wants him to know this, exactly this.

"I believe you," Tony says, and a corner of his mouth curls upwards, eyebrows quirking. The kiss makes him breathless, even if it's supposed to be sweet. "Okay, _lab._ "

It's not the morning yet, but there's so much light. Tony is looking at him through the symmetric lines of his schematics, opening his world to him, and for a moment Bucky wonders if Tony can see the man who left for Europe with dreams of glory and a spring in his step.

Bucky barely remembers him beyond the abstract, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. It figures. Some of his old memories lack the same expanse of feeling than those he's just started to make. But the wonder has to be the same he felt when he visited that fair just before saying goodbye to everything he'd known, eyes set on the future.

He hopes that Tony can see it.

The idea that he does makes Bucky smile.


End file.
